


All These Fictionary Tales

by ProxyOne



Series: Spinning In Daffodils [1]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Anonymous Sex, Attempted Sexual Assault, Denial, F/F, M/M, Murder, Post-Episode: s03e13 The Wrath of the Lamb, References to Depression
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-11
Updated: 2016-05-18
Packaged: 2018-06-07 21:31:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 18,492
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6825118
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ProxyOne/pseuds/ProxyOne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the fall, Hannibal is presumed dead.  Will has been declared dead.</p>
<p>But Will isn't willing to believe that Hannibal would just abandon him like that.</p>
<p>Updates weekly.</p>
<p>[Edit] I lied. This is updating more or less daily now.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So I've been working on this fic for a while now, and it is completely finished! The plan at this stage is to update on Thursdays, but who knows, maybe I'll end up doing a daily update or something.
> 
> Title is from Bandoliers, by Them Crooked Vultures

At first there was fear, and pain, and cold and hot and _noise._ So much noise. Noise everywhere, inside and outside, wind and water and was that screaming? His mouth was closed but his mind, oh yes, his mind was screaming at him to take it back, to take it all back, but he couldn't, and then?

Then there was nothing. It was dark, and he was floating, and then it was all gone.

The nothing didn't last. It _couldn't_ last. Nothingness never can, not when there is the possibility of someone comprehending that it is there, and by that comprehension, destroying it.

The light was too bright, and Will squeezed his eyes shut, trying to flee it. The noise had returned, though it was different this time. It was a noise somehow silent in its ferocity. There was beeping coming from somewhere, though he couldn't work out where, not when that bright light was blinding him.

He tried to move, only to find himself unable to do so, not to any meaningful degree. He tried to speak, simultaneously shocked and unsurprised when little more than a croak emerged from his throat. He felt like he'd been screaming for hours, _days_ , and any voice he'd once had would not be returning for a good long while yet. He'd used up his quota for the foreseeable future.

Hands were on him then and he flinched away, or thought he did. The hands didn't leave him, soft and soothing on his skin but they felt _wrong,_ so very, very wrong. They weren't the hands he instinctively expected. They were smaller, softer.

A voice was drifting down to him then, and that voice was wrong, too. Soft, feminine.

Unaccented.

Where was the voice that should be there? He was so sure there should be a different voice, different hands. The smells were all wrong, the light was all wrong, _everything_ was all wrong but he couldn't work out why.

Soon there were other hands, other voices, and then the nothingness returned.

/--/

The next time Will opened his eyes, he could focus, just a little. The light was still too bright, still wrong, but at least this time it wasn't blinding him. He blinked, and his vision cleared a little more. There was a window, though the curtains were drawn. The light was coming from directly above him so he turned his head to the side, relieved that he seemed to be able to manage that much.

When he moved, those same wrong hands returned to the skin on his arm. How he knew they were the same hands, he didn't know. They just _were._ Whoever they belonged to was sitting on the other side of the bed from where his head was turned, and he squeezed his eyes closed again. He didn't want to see whoever it was, even though they clearly wanted to see him. There was a buzzing in his ears, and it took Will a moment to realise that it was the sound of the person talking. He didn't want to hear. The voice was still wrong. He didn't want to hear that voice, he wanted the _other_ one. The one he knew was never going to be heard in this room. He hunched his shoulders up, and the voice stopped.

If only the screaming would.

/--/

Will stared blankly at the ceiling. His hospital room was blessedly empty of people for a change. Not that he ever spoke to any of them. His voice might have come back; he wasn't sure. He wasn't in any mood to find out. There was only one person he wanted to see, one person he wanted to speak to. He couldn't come, Will knew he couldn't, and so far Will hadn't found a way to ask if he was …

He couldn't even say it in his own head.

The door pushed open, and he glanced up in false hope. He didn't know if it was worse because he knew it to be false, or if it would have been worse to have the genuine belief that maybe, just maybe, Hannibal would be the one to walk through that door.

Instead of tall lines and angled features, the figure entering was all soft curves and sympathetic eyes. Alana seemed to have lost some of her hardness from before Will fell. She hadn't returned completely to the way she used to look, before all of this; rather, she now lay somewhere in between - still controlled, but in a more relaxed way. Will snorted to himself. It must be nice, he thought, to be able to shed your own skin whenever you wanted to.

He didn't miss the way she stopped for just a fraction of a second, her face freezing as their eyes met. The look was quickly swept away though, replaced by a smile and bright eyes.

“You're awake!” she exclaimed with a smile, the cheeriness jarring. Will didn't want cheery, especially not when it was so obviously manufactured. He didn't want visitors. He didn't want _any_ of this. At least they'd finally taken the incessantly chirping machines away.

He watched as Alana moved further into the room, closing the door behind her. She smiled brightly again, but not nearly enough to hide the wariness behind her eyes. He could almost smell the fear, though whether it was for him, or because of him, he couldn't tell. She sat in the chair next to the bed, the same one she'd been sitting in every time he'd woken. This was the first time he'd let her know it, though. It was strange, seeing her like this.

“I can't believe you're finally awake,” she said, unaware or uncaring that it was just a repeat of her first words upon entering. Will just stared blankly at her. She reached up towards his face, but stopped when Will flinched, for real this time, before she could make contact. Her face tightened, but she said nothing, instead returning her hand slowly to her lap. “You had a couple of times when your eyes opened and we thought you were waking,” she continued, her voice as steady as ever, “but it never lasted more than a couple of seconds. You probably don't remember.”

Will remembered that. He remembered just fine.

What he _couldn't_ remember was where he was, and how or why he was here. The room was set up like a hospital room, but it didn't look like one; the glimpses he'd had out of the open door didn't look like a hospital either.

“What have you been told?” Alana asked after a moment of awkward silence, her voice suddenly, and carefully, neutral. Will looked at her, contemplating trying his voice out. Instead he just shook his head. It was easier to pretend he still couldn't talk. He didn't trust himself not to say the wrong thing. Not until he knew what had happened.

“You were found on a beach. Not really a beach,” she said with that mirthless little laugh she did sometimes. “More like a sheltered part of the cliff, covered in pebbles. You were pretty banged up.”

Her voice grew serious at that, those eyes growing round with pity and sympathy. Will hated it.

“It's probably easier to list the bones you _didn't_ break, rather than the ones you did. You did sustain head injuries, but they all seem to have, somehow, been superficial, though we won't know for sure until we're able to do more tests.”

Will just rolled his eyes at that. He knew there was nothing wrong with his head. He didn't care about the injuries he got in the fall. He knew they would happen when he turned his body so he was beneath Hannibal, wanting to take the force of the impact. It was the only thing he could think of to do to protect Hannibal. What he wanted to know was what happened after that.

What happened to Hannibal.

He decided to risk it, and opened his mouth to croak out one word.

“Hannibal.”

Alana's face changed then, a rippling of different emotions. Apprehension, fear, compassion, that ever present sympathy, and it was that last one that sent a cold spike of fear stabbing directly through his chest.

“He's dead, Will. You don't need to worry about him any more.”

Will lay in blank shock, the numbness that simple statement caused quickly becoming physical. _No._ Will had protected him. He'd taken the full force of their plummet into the water, and _he_ had lived. Hannibal _had_ to be -

He _had_ to be.

He didn't realise he was shaking his head until Alana stood and leaned over him, holding his head between her hands.

“Will,” she said firmly, looking him in the eyes. Will stared back up, wondering why her face was so blurred and shimmery, until the tears spilled over and down his cheeks.

He didn't make a sound.

He closed his eyes so he couldn't see Alana any more, letting the tears flow down even as he fought to keep his breathing under control, the whole time remaining as still and as silent as he was when he was unconscious. He retreated back into himself, unable to face what Alana insisted was reality.

He wasn't entirely sure how long Alana sat with him. His head hurt, but he didn't dare mention it to her. To anyone. He didn't dare say anything, after the way that one word had reigned disaster down upon him.

But he knew it wasn't true. He _knew_ Hannibal would be out there somewhere, waiting for him. He would find Will. It wasn't a case of belief, any more than he actively believed in the bed beneath him. It just _was_.

Eventually Alana had to break the silence. Will's face had long since dried its tears, and it was clear to him that Alana was bothered by the listless way he had been staring upwards, his gaze unfixed.

“Will?” she said softly, fidgeting with her fingers.

“Where is he?” Will whispered, his voice still too hoarse to work properly. He hadn't meant to say it, but it was out there now, and he was damned if he was going to let her leave without telling him everything she knew.

“We haven't been able to retrieve the body, yet,” she said quietly, looking down at her fingers. The hope that flared through Will burned so hot he was sure Alana must feel it, but she didn't stir.

“Then how do you know...” he forced out, words trailing off into a violent coughing fit. Alana stood, holding a straw to his mouth. He'd spent too much of his life like this, he thought, though he drank down the cool water greedily anyway. He hadn't realised just how dry he'd let his throat get, and he was grateful to Alana for her help.

Once he was finished, Alana sat back down, leaving the cup and straw on the bedside table. She stayed quiet long enough that Will thought she had forgotten his half asked question, deliberately or otherwise. He opened his mouth to ask again, but she lifted a hand. He didn't ask again.

After several more moments, each second becoming more tense than the last, she finally began to speak.

“We found Dolarhyde's camera. There wasn't much on it; it was kicked over at some point so most of the footage was of the wall, but we saw Hannibal lying shot on the floor.”

She paused, looking up at Will as though for confirmation. He nodded, and waited for her to continue.

“There was a lot of blood on the floor. To be honest, I'm not sure how he got up, but he did. That much we saw before he knocked the camera. There was even more of his blood outside, leading up to the cliff.”

She paused again, and again Will nodded. It seemed they were in confirming-the-story mode. That was fine. That he could do.

“There was a lot of yours, a lot of Dolarhyde's. Even more of Hannibal's. We know all three of you had a fight, and then you and Hannibal went over the edge, leaving Dolarhyde dead.”

Once again Will nodded, though his eyes squeezed shut as he did. Alana's voice grew more gentle as she spoke, as though she were afraid of spooking a wild animal. Who knew, maybe that's exactly how she saw him.

“Between the amount of blood we found, the fact of his gunshot wound, and the nature of the injuries you sustained, there's just no way he could have survived that fall, Will. Even if the initial impact didn't kill him, he wouldn't have been able to stay alive very long in that cold water.”

She stopped, but Will could feel the rest of the words she wanted to say, just waiting to escape her lips.

“Will, you washed up alone. You barely made it out of the water, and if you hadn't been found when you were, you would have died. Hannibal didn't make it out of the water. He's gone.”

Will shook his head, just once, refusing to believe Alana. There was just no way he was going to be expected to live without Hannibal. They both died, or they both lived. That was the way of the universe, he _knew_ that. To live without him was like being cut in two down the centre, and then expecting to walk around as though nothing was wrong.

“Will, I know he managed to get into your head, _again_ , but -”

“He didn't get into my head, Alana.”

They lapsed into silence again, before another question occurred to Will.

“How long have I been here?”

“A little over two weeks.”

Will blinked. That didn't seem right. Alana apparently could sense his confusion, because she elaborated.

“The nature of your injuries, and your need for intubation meant we kept you in an induced coma. You struggled to wake from it. If I'm being honest, I wasn't sure if you _would_ wake.”

That explained the sore throat then. He just nodded, staring at Alana until she looked away, obviously uncomfortable.

“Newspapers?” he asked, amused slightly at the consternation on her face.

“You don't want to see those,” she began, but he cut her off with a wave of his hand. She sighed, bowing her head.

“Fine, I'll see what I can do. But Jack is going to want to speak to you before I can do anything, okay?”

Will shrugged. It seemed he'd already waited two weeks, he could wait a little longer. Wherever Hannibal was, he would have needed time to get better anyway. There was no way he was going to just leave Will behind.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, I decided to put up the next chapter today rather than next week, because I'm impatient af.

It was another full day before Jack deigned to show his face. Alana had popped in and out of Will's room, leaving whenever another doctor or nurse would show up to run the battery of tests they seemed hell bent on inflicting on him. He could have told them he was fine, that there were no long lasting effects despite the battering his body had taken, but it seemed his word wasn't to be believed any more. He couldn't really hold it against them. He was just pleased Alana seemed to accept that he had nothing to do with Hannibal's escape. It meant that once he was finally allowed to leave this place, he could work on finding him again.

It was late afternoon when Alana re-entered after another round of tests, this time checking on his range of motion in his shoulders. The pain was excruciating, but nothing worse than what he had come to expect. It was hardly the first major injury he had received in his life. Jack followed behind her, his face as grave as ever, but this time there was something else hiding behind it. Triumph, mixed with trepidation and concern. He would be happy about Hannibal's death, the smug bastard. Will swallowed the pang of grief that threatened to rise up at the thought. Hannibal _wasn't_ dead. It was impossible, so there was no point in letting them force him into mourning.

“Will,” Jack said, his voice low and even. There was a time Will had found that tone soothing, but not any longer. It never boded well for him.

“Jack,” he answered, squirming in his bed to try and find a more comfortable position. He waited until they were both seated, then decided to cut straight to the point.

“You think Hannibal's dead, and you won't give me any newspapers.”

Jack, to his credit, didn't so much as bat an eyelid.

“We don't think, we _know_. We may not have found his body, but it's just not possible for him to have survived that. It's a miracle _you_ did.”

Will didn't answer. There was no point in arguing with Jack when he felt that he was right.

“That said,” Jack continued, “because we don't have his body, certain precautions have had to be made. Which is why you haven't been given a newspaper yet. Or any type of device that would allow you to look at what's going on in the world. Not until I had a chance to come and talk to you.”

And here it was, the avalanche that Will had been so sure Jack was about to unleash on his head.

“You were declared dead, heroically killed in the line of duty, removing two notorious serial killers from the world as your last action.”

Will gaped at Jack, his mouth falling open in disbelief.

“Your wife was informed the day after we found you. Doctors worked valiantly to save your life, but your injuries were just too severe. It was recommended that she not identify your body, and that you have a closed casket funeral. That funeral took place last week.”

_Molly. Shit._ Will hadn't given her or Walter so much as a thought since he had woken up. Guilt crashed through him then, despair and grief that he couldn't have been a better husband, a better _man_ for her. And then the anger started.

“Why am I dead, Jack?” he asked, fighting to keep his voice even. The hoarseness helped with that, but only just. His fingers twitched, curling around the edges of the casts both arms were encased in, the plaster the only thing stopping them from forming full fists. The fact that Jack thought he could ruin the lives of innocent people like Molly and Walter

_(you didn't so much as think about them you hypocritical prick)_

filled Will with what could only be described as righteous anger.

“For your safety, and the safety of your family.”

Will snorted, outright laughing in disbelief. _This can't be happening,_ he thought, the sentence looping over and over in his mind.

“Why? Hannibal's dead. The Dragon is dead. What could there possibly be that Molly and I need protection from? Their ghosts?”

He was hysterical now, tears leaking out as he laughed harder and harder. Alana stood up and moved to his side, one hand gripping his shoulder while the other cupped his chin, forcing his face towards hers.

“I know this is a lot to take in, Will, but it's for the best.”

“For the best?” Will snapped, his voice strained beyond its breaking point. “ _How_ is this for the best? It doesn't make even the smallest bit of _fucking sense!”_

In any other circumstance his voice's pathetic attempts at anger would have been funny. It wasn't now.

“Until we find Hannibal's body, we can't ever be 100% certain that he's really dead, and that he won't be coming for you, or for Molly. We also can't be certain that even if he is dead, that he hasn't put measures in place to take you or Molly out.”

Will was incredulous.

“ _'Take us out?'_ That's not Hannibal's style, and you know it. He wouldn't.”

Despair filled him then. For all he knew it was impossible for Hannibal to have died, he also knew it was impossible that Hannibal would just leave him here, rotting in some nameless place disguised as a hospital. And yet, here he was.

“Get out,” he whispered.

“Will,” Jack began, but was promptly interrupted by Alana.

“I think it's a good idea that you leave, just for now, Jack.”

“You as well, Alana,” Will said. “I need to be alone.”

He turned his head as far away from the both of them as he could, and closed his eyes.

/--/

Alana followed Jack out of Will's room, closing the door softly behind her.

“I told you he wasn't going to take it well.”

Jack didn't look nearly as upset as Alana thought he should, and she wasn't in the least bit surprised when he just shrugged his shoulders.

“Didn't take it nearly as badly as he could have.”

“There's more going on than he's showing us, Jack. Will has depths to him that we just can't see, but I know him well enough to see that he's not coping.”

Jack strode down the hall ahead of Alana, forcing her to hurry to keep up. It was one of his more irritating habits, but she could understand how he felt. Not that that stopped her from disagreeing with every single step he had taken so far.

“I don't think you know him as well as you think you do,” was all he said, moving into the small office that had been set up for them and sitting at the desk.

“No matter what he's done, or what you _think_ he's done, he's still Will, Jack. He's still struggling with all the same things he's always struggled with.”

“He let Hannibal Lecter escape!”

“You know as well as I do that the evidence doesn't support Will doing that, Jack! And your own forensics team says that in all likelihood it was _Will_ who pulled Hannibal over the cliff. He sacrificed himself to finally get rid of Hannibal, and this is the way you treat him!”

To say Alana was furious would be an understatement of the most extreme kind. She hated every step of this plan, because she could see the futility of it all, and could see the damage it was going to do to Will.

“Hannibal is dead, Jack. Why you can't let this go, can't let _Will_ go so he can live his life in peace is beyond me.”

“We can't prove that, Alana, not until we have a body.”

Alana flung her hands up in the air, feeling just a fraction of what Will must have been feeling.

“You saw what Will was like when he washed up, how close he came to actually dying. What makes you think Hannibal somehow came out better off? Well enough to make an evidence free escape, despite all the bleeding he was doing?”

“I've seen Hannibal walk away from things that would have killed anyone else. I'm not making the mistake of underestimating him again. I don't care what the official narrative is, as long as I don't see a body, he's alive to me. And I will do whatever I need to do to keep Will safe.”

It was too much for Alana. She stood up, gathering her things and heading towards the door.

“I'll be back to observe Will later on today. But Jack? What you're doing to 'save' him, might well be what ends up breaking him for good.”

She turned and walked out of the room, not sticking around to see or hear what Jack's reaction might be. She maintained her controlled exterior until she reached her car, but the moment she was seated she slumped over steering wheel, too emotionally exhausted to do anything else. She allowed herself to stay like that for a minute, then sat back up, pulling her phone out and calling Margot.

“Hey, you,” came the voice from the other end, doing what it never failed to do and making her smile.

“Hey Margot.”

“So how'd it go?”

“About as well as I'd expected. Will shut down and kicked us out, Jack refused to even entertain the idea that this might all be a mistake,” Alana said, keeping it as short as possible. It wasn't really the reason for her call anyway.

“Wow, a man thinking he's right about everything. You have shocked and surprised me, Alana.”

Alana laughed outright at that. Margot's dry humour was the perfect balm for what had turned out to be the most taxing day of an incredibly stressful few weeks.

“Do we have plans tonight?” she asked, sure that Margot did but knowing that her wife would cancel them in a second if Alana asked.

“I'm supposed to be in some meeting about choosing new breeding stock, but I would be more than happy to lavish you with some breeding flavoured attention instead, if you like.”

Alana shivered at the low, husky quality of Margot's voice.

“I thought we could give everyone the night off,” said Alana, making a note to make damn sure Margot followed through on her offer later. “Have a night with just us and Morgan.”

She could practically hear Margot's smile through the phone.

“Yeah,” she said, the single word calming Alana's frayed nerves. “I think that'd be a good idea. You come straight home when you can, and I'll organise everything at this end. You can have a relaxing evening for a change.”

Alana felt like she could cry at the ease with which Margot could make her happy, and that only served to swell her guilt over what she was helping to do to Will.

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, have another one

It was some weeks before Will was finally allowed to be released from the hospital. Or whatever it was they were disguising as a hospital; Will still hadn't quite worked that out. Whatever it was, it had all the equipment needed for his recovery. He assumed Alana had been responsible for it, seeing that since he was officially dead, it wouldn't be the done thing for him to be showing his face in an actual hospital. His casts, his bandages, his stitches and staples and dressings were all gradually removed, and he began to be forced into his physical rehab exercises, even while Alana tried her best to get into his mind.

He hadn't intended on shutting down every time he saw her, but he found himself in that habit without having made any conscious decision to do so. It was worst whenever she brought up Hannibal, her efforts to convince him of his death slowing chipping away at his resolve. Especially when the weeks started to slip by, and there was no sign, _anywhere_ , that Hannibal was looking for him. No coded messages in the papers, no sightings on the news – any news, whether that be local, national, international. There was just _nothing_. No signs that anyone who wasn't expected had been anywhere near the facility Will was being more or less kept prisoner in.

Will was learning that it was very hard to maintain hope, when every part of the world was trying to drag it away from you.

Today was no different. He'd combed the papers, searched every news site on the severely limited access to the internet they provided him with, and yet again come up with nothing. His frustration was reaching all new levels; when Alana entered his room he had to swallow down the urge to throw the accumulated pile of papers at her.

“Good morning, Will,” she said, as soft and bright and clinical as ever. It was her professional voice, the one that he had grown to hate, because it was the voice that was dictating to him what he could and could not do now that he was dead. He wanted Alana's real voice back, the voice of his friend. He wondered if maybe it was too late to ever have that voice back again. He didn't answer her, but he at least managed to refrain from scowling at her.

Progress was progress, right?

He was sitting in the chair next to his bed, too tired still to do much in the way of exercise, but having grown to loathe the bed he had been confined to for so long. The curtains on the window were open today, letting in weak sunlight. The view was nothing much – a high-fenced yard, thin grass, bare trees. It felt like a metaphor for his own life. Only the bare bones still standing, everything that might have made the yard beautiful stripped away.

“Can I ask you something, Alana?” he asked, as surprised as Alana was at his willingness to speak unprompted.

“Of course! Ask me anything.” She was so happy to have Will communicating that it almost made him feel guilty for having been so uncooperative.

Almost.

“Why has Jack not been back? I assume he's the one who came up with this bullshit plan, so why has he left you to deal with it?”

Alana's face went blank, but Will caught the way her fingers twitched, the way she clasped them as though to keep them under control. It seemed to him like Jack's decision was not necessarily a unanimous one.

“Jack's very busy. Despite Hannibal's death, and your supposed one, he's had a lot of work to do. It's hard to explain how exactly a situation like this could have happened.”

“Yeah, I've seen the explaining job he's been doing,” Will snorted. The papers, for those first few weeks he was conscious, were almost unable to talk about anything else. A serial killer showdown, with a valiant cop caught in the middle was one of the best things news outlets could think of. It didn't matter that damn near none of what they were reporting was true. It didn't matter that in every real way, Hannibal had actually _saved_ Will's life.

They sat in uncomfortable silence for a moment longer, Will shifting his gaze back out of the window.

“I can't help but notice there's been no sign of any Tattlecrime articles,” he said, almost offhandedly. “No papers, and the site is blocked for me here. Why is that, Alana?”

If Will had thought that Alana was uncomfortable now, he didn't know how to describe her now. She was looking down into her lap, her hands twisting together almost compulsively. The tension in her entire body was obvious.

“So what's Freddie got to say about the whole thing? What aren't you letting me see?”

“Freddie thinks you both escaped, and are off somewhere licking your wounds. Or each other's wounds. Freddie is being especially _Freddie_ about this whole thing.”

Alana's words were carefully chosen, obviously trying to get the point across without actually saying what was being said. Tears threatened to flood Will's eyes as another twin surge of grief and regret tore through him. He could feel it, physically _feel_ it as it threatened to tear him in two. He choked back a sob, Alana mistaking it for a real choke and grabbing his cup of water for him. He took it anyway, inwardly grateful for the chance to pull himself back into some semblance of control. He drank the water slowly, waiting for the numbness to return before he lowered it from his lips.

“Yeah, I know,” Alana said, watching him carefully. Will lowered his eyes as she spoke. “It's ridiculous, to think that you would even think about running off with Hannibal, but she wouldn't be Freddie if she wasn't making up the most out there stories that she could, just to get a few more readers.”

Will could feel the way she watched him, waiting for him to take the clumsily laid bait. She _wanted_ him to deny it, wanted him to laugh with her and say that it could never happen, not in a million years.

She would be waiting a long time.

He remained silent, letting Alana's tension ratchet up by degrees until finally it snapped and she sagged, shoulders falling visibly even from the periphery of Will's sight. She sighed, sitting down on the edge of the bed next to him. One of her hands drifted over to rest on his shoulder, and he tried not to flinch. Physical contact was never something that he particularly relished, but since that night on the cliff he couldn't bear the thought of being touched by anyone other than Hannibal.

It was looking increasingly likely that he was never going to have that touch again.

“I know this is hard for you, Will. You've lost your wife, your stepson -”

Will shivered at the mention of them, guilty that he wasn't more guilty over forgetting them again. They were better off without him, and that was a fact, not a burst of self-pity. He should have never involved himself in their lives, not when he had only ever had half of himself to give.

“You have to try and get him out.”

“What?” he asked, tuning back in to what Alana was saying, only to find himself completely lost.

“I was wondering when you'd come back,” she answered with a soft smile. The smile vanished as she repeated what she had been saying. “Hannibal insinuated himself so fully into your mind that I'm not sure how to fix all of his damage. You have to be the one to finally get him out.”

“And what if I don't want to, Alana?”

She looked shocked at his words, and Will felt a small thrill of triumph. It was petty to feel that way, he knew, and yet it didn't make a difference.

“He's dead, you said it yourself,” Will said flatly, ignoring that pain that the words caused him. It still wasn't true until he saw it for himself. “What more can he do? He's _gone._ ”

It was those words that finally broke him. He closed his eyes, squeezing them tight against the tears that once more demanded release. He wasn't going to let them. Vaguely he was aware of Alana speaking, trying to get through to him again, but he closed his mind to her and drifted into the void.

/--/

Towards the end of the week with the disastrous conversation with Alana, Jack decided to show his face again. Will could barely disguise his contempt. It was so like Jack, to be the orchestrator of chaos, and then run away to let others take the responsibility. It was Jack's fault that any and all of this had happened. It was Jack who pushed him into the field in the first place, Jack who put him in Hannibal's path, Jack who pulled him back in.

Will turned his head away, not wanting to hear a thing that Jack had to say. The sooner he could get out of here and away from this life, the better.

“I know you're not exactly pleased to see me, Will.” Jack's voice was as low and even as ever. Just another day at the office, just another broken person to have to deal with. It enraged Will.

“Wow, Jack. What makes you come to that conclusion?” he replied, unable to reign in his tone.

Jack just sighed, easing himself into the chair beside the bed. Will was resting after the exhaustion of his latest round of physiotherapy, and this visit from Jack couldn't have come at a worse time. He was sore and grumpy, even without the other man sitting there next to him.

“Why are you here?” he asked, not concerned in the slightest at how rude or dismissive he sounded. Neither, it seemed, was Jack.

“Alana said you'd been asking for me. So, I came.”

“If by asking you actually mean wondering why you threw in the grenade of my destroyed life and supposed death, then ran off without another word, then yeah, I suppose I have been.”

“I'd say it's for your own good, but I know you don't want to hear that. So I'll just say it's for the good of everyone around you.”

Will laughed, a despairing sound that he could scarcely believe he was capable of making.

“Oh, it's good for Molly and Walter to have their lives torn apart by the death of a husband and father, _again_? You don't give a shit about anyone else, Jack. You only care about having me out of your hair once and for all. Which, let me remind you, I was doing a good job of all on my own, until you came and lured me back in again.”

Jack nodded along with Will's outburst, looking anything but contrite.

“That's fair,” he said mildly. “But don't pretend you give any more of a shit about your former family than I do, Will. You sure as hell weren't thinking about them when you concocted your doomed plan to finally run off with Hannibal Lecter, were you?”

Will had no idea if he was more pissed off at Jack's calm, almost amused tone of voice, or the fact that he was right.

“It's like I told you at the time. Until I see Lecter's cold, dead corpse in front of me, I won't ever be able to truly believe he's dead. And if I don't completely believe he's dead, then I can't ever be sure that you won't try and find him. Destroying your life might be an extreme decision, but it's one I'm willing to make. Especially if it makes any hypothetical situation in which you're trying to find each other that much harder.”

“It's easy to make that call when it's not your own life being torn down,” Will mumbled, all his fight leaving him. “How do you know I won't just stage a public resurrection?”

“Because while you may not have been thinking about Molly and Walter, I have to believe that you still care for them. They've grieved, they've laid you to rest, and they're beginning the steps towards moving on. Do you want to put them through the wringer again? Especially if you have no intention of going back to them?”

Will had to hand it to Jack. He sometimes had a way of getting to the truth of the matter, even if his ways were clumsier, and not nearly as accurate as Will's own.

“For the record, Jack, I hadn't decided what to do about Hannibal. It could well have gone the way you planned it. It _did_ go the way you planned it.”

“That wasn't by your design though, was it?”

They lapsed into silence at that, both men knowing just how true it was. Eventually Jack clapped his hands on his knees and stood, looking down at Will who refused to look back up.

“Rest up, Will. You're moving out of here in four days.”

Fear shot through Will.

“Where am I going?”

“Alana has sorted all of that out. I don't know, and I don't want to know. From this point on, you're a free man. Just like you wanted.”

Will could only glare in disbelief as Jack walked out of the room and, presumably, out of his life.

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Will begins his fast descent to rock bottom.

Alana had brought him in an already packed bag of clothes. She didn't tell him what she had put in there, and he didn't ask. It didn't matter anyway. He knew she had arranged a house through whatever shadowy contacts she had, and now she was laying out before him a drivers license, birth certificate, passport, social security number … _everything_ he could possibly need for his new life.

“David Johnson,” he said flatly, entirely unimpressed. “You really went all out on finding the most boring, middle of the road name you could, didn't you?”

“The point of blending in is to not stand out in any way. No one is going to have the name David Johnson stick in their memory.”

Will just rolled his eyes, shoving his arms through the jacket she had provided with the rest of his change of clothes.

“Should I ask why it's a Delaware license?” he asked.

“Because that's where you'll be living for now. I have a place for you just outside of Newark. Close enough for me to be able to help you out.”

“Keep an eye on me, you mean.”

Alana smiled, but there was no joy in it.

“I wish things had worked out differently, Will,” she said, and the worst part was that Will knew that she meant it. “If it helps, we found you a house that reminded me a bit of your old place in Wolf Trap. I thought it might help with readjusting. I can't bring your dogs out, Molly still has them, but it's the sort of place that if you wanted to, you could get more dogs.”

“Yeah, that's all I need,” he huffed. “Get some dogs and I'll be back to being the same old Will Graham. Sorry, the same old David Johnson. Guess I better get used to saying that now. Do you think I'm more a David, or a Dave?”

He knew he was being childish, and he didn't care at all. If he'd earned anything, it was the right to be childish, especially since he was being treated like one.

“So did David grow up in Delaware?” he asked, curious as to how much of his new life had already been planned out for him.

“He did,” Alana answered simply. “We've tried to keep your new life as similar to your old one as possible. David is a boat engine mechanic. You also have income from a regular customer of yours.”

Will stilled in his fidgeting. He hadn't even given a thought to money, to how he was going to live.

“Would that regular customer go by the name Verger?” he asked, already knowing the answer.

“Officially? No.” Alana said, which was as good as a yes. Will was torn between gratitude to Alana and Margot, and fury at the way they had managed to tie another string to him. He would always be their pet, in one way or another. For now though, he just didn't want to think any more. He hefted the bags, and followed Alana from the room, from the building, and towards his new life.

/--/

The house was nice, he begrudgingly admitted. Isolated and simple and reminiscent of Wolf Trap, it was as Alana said. Simply furnished, it had no real personality of its own, and even that was so strikingly similar to the way he used to live, before Molly. A few weeks of tinkering with his engines, and it would be just the same. He had a brief flash of Hannibal's Bentley, long since sold to some mad collector, parked outside, and it sent a pang of longing through him. There were things that were unlikely, and then there were things that were impossible.

They had had a quick explore through the house – not that there was much to see, a couple of bedrooms, a kitchen and living area, a laptop set up for Will to use that Alana assured him was free of anything that could enable her to see what he was doing – when another car pulled up in the driveway. He watched, curious, as Margot made her way up to the house, a child perched on her hip.

“Is that …?”

“That's Morgan,” Alana said with a smile. “We'd taken him away as a precaution when we heard that Hannibal had escaped, and he wasn't impressed at having to come home. He's still a little grumpy about it.”

“Kids do like to hold on to things,” Will said with a half smile, surprised at the instant bonding he felt over their discussion of children. He missed Walter, he really did, but not in a longing kind of way. It was more of an abstract, hypothetical way of missing someone, and Will wasn't really interested in figuring out what that said about him. Maybe he'd just lost too many children to be able to ever process it properly again.

He watched as Margot entered and made her way directly to Alana, the two women sharing the type of kiss that only comes with years of comfortable affection. Morgan reached his arms out for Alana, wanting the parent he hadn't just been spending time with.

“Hey, Will,” Margot said softly. It had been so long since Will had seen her, and she had changed so much. Not in terms of her physical appearance; she looked as polished and sophisticated as always. Rather, her time with Alana and away from Mason had softened her, her face far more open and welcoming than it had ever been when he had first known her. It was clear to Will that married life and motherhood suited her as well as he had always suspected they would.

“I just wanted to come and say hi, see how you're doing.”

Will just shrugged.

“I'm doing about as well as the next dead man,” he deadpanned, and while Margot smiled it was a smile of sadness, not humour.

He hated it.

“I've stocked up your cupboards with things I thought you might need,” she continued, looking around the house. “Most of it is dried and canned, but there are a few fresh vegetables in the fridge, and some frozen meat in the freezer.”

“Any whiskey?” he asked, not missing the glance Margot and Alana exchanged as he spoke. “No whiskey then, I take it?”

“It's probably not best that you drink while you're still on medication, Will,” Alana said gently.

“Then I'll stop taking my medication. I've lived through worse, Alana,” he snapped as she opened her mouth to protest. “Now is there anywhere nearby that I can walk to for supplies? This isn't going to last me forever.”

Alana held out the set of keys she'd used to open the door to the house, the one also containing her car key.

“The car's yours,” she said. “Margot is here to pick me up.”

Will felt another twin rush of gratefulness and disgust at the next string that was tied to him. At present he was reliant on the Vergers for both money and transport. He would have to fix that as soon as possible, if he wanted any chance of being able to move on, of being able to plan for the things that he really wanted. They stood awkwardly around each other then, Alana and Margot both with that same damn pitying look in their eyes, and Will couldn't take it anymore.

“I'm sure you need to get Morgan home,” he said, using the easiest excuse there was. “I'll get myself sorted here. Thanks for all of your help, guys.”

He tried to keep his tone as genuine as possible, though he couldn't tell whether it was working or not. Alana and Margot had another of their silent conversations, which was ended when Margot nodded slightly, and they both stepped back.

“I've left you a phone charging in the bedroom,” Alana mentioned almost offhandedly. “It's got my number as well as Margot's programmed in already, so you just give us a call if you need anything, okay?”

Will nodded, and followed them out onto the veranda. Quick, tight hugs were exchanged, and almost as if by magic they were suddenly gone, the car vanishing within moments. Will closed his eyes and breathed in, listening to the sound of nothing but the occasional chirp of a bird, and the wind rustling the leaves of the trees.

For the first time in weeks he was alone, and he had no idea what to do about it.

His eyes still closed, he took in the smells of the place, until his traitorous mind began putting Hannibal in. Hannibal, walking up to the veranda. Hannibal, wrapping his arms around Will's body like he had that night on the cliff. Hannibal, pressing lips to the side of Will's neck like he _never_ had, no matter how obvious it was that he had wanted to that night.

Will was hit by a devastating wave of loneliness, so heavy and so profound that it almost dropped him to his knees. He opened his eyes, forcing the image of Hannibal to dissolve from his imagination, and turned move back inside.

/--/

The next few weeks followed the same pattern, day after day. Boat engines were bought online, tinkered with and refurbished, then sold again. Alana & Margot's _allowance_ to him arrived like clockwork every Wednesday, and between that and what he made selling the boat motors he had more than enough money for his needs.

Mornings were spent scouring every news source he could find, everywhere in the world, for anything that could possibly be a sign of Hannibal's survival. He made sure to dispose of any evidence of what he was doing whenever Alana would show up to check in on him, sure that she would sit him down for another lecture on why it was futile. He couldn't take hearing any more about how dead Hannibal was, how impossible it was for him to be able to ever see him again. And he certainly couldn't handle hearing about how worried Alana was that he was still so lost in the world Hannibal had created for him. So, as far as Alana knew, he was moving on from that. It kept her happy, and it kept her visits shorter.

It also made it easier to hide the little things he filled his home with to remind himself of Hannibal. He continued on his habit that he had developed at Molly's of collecting things that had stag images – and wow, wasn't that a change, that he now thought of it solely as being Molly's place, rather than theirs. There was never anything huge, a throw pillow here, a small ornament there, but it was enough to trigger the memories. He built himself a series of shelves in the kitchen that he filled with potted plants. It was nothing like the herb garden Hannibal had kept cultivated, but he did have a few things for cooking, and filled out the remaining space with ferns and small indoor flowering plants. It was soothing, to see the small wall of green every morning.

The cooking was the other thing he had absorbed from Hannibal. Once upon a time he would have been perfectly happy with packet meals, quickly cooked, but now he _needed_ to remind himself of how things once were. He had begun to acquire a small set of skills with Molly, and he put those to use in this new life, ever expanding them. He wanted Hannibal to be impressed with him when he finally found him.

At night, he would settle down and read, and if he found himself drinking too much to be considered healthy, no one was around to see it.

All in all, it was a quiet life for him now, but one filled with the never ending drive to find the one thing that he hated himself for throwing away. Each little action he took kept his hope alive, and he found himself believing, completely and utterly, that they would be seeing each other again.

That changed one Tuesday morning.

The day was the same as any other. He'd returned from the store with a new load of groceries, and stopped at the letterbox on his way to the house. There was the usual stack of envelopes and advertising, but right at the bottom of the pile was a plain, unaddressed envelope. He carried it inside, curious as to what it was, carefully placing the bags on the table and dropping the rest of the mail.

He slid a finger under the flap, carefully tearing into the envelope and retrieving the single sheet of paper inside. His hands began to shake as he read the short note inside, before he dropped it. He moved in a haze across to the kitchen, surprisingly calm in his movements. He looked blankly at his wall of plants, the fern leaf patterns blurring the longer he stared. He gave a blink, clearing his vision, and moved with purpose to the cupboard. He pulled out a bottle of whiskey – one of several he had accumulated – and a glass, and sat down on a stool next to the kitchen bench. He poured a drink, downed it, poured another.

And another.

Then another.

/--/

Alana smiled as she pulled into Will's driveway, pleased to see his car parked out the front and the door open. She was pleased to see Will getting better, becoming less obsessed with his fixation on the idea of Hannibal somehow still being alive. Margot was pleased, too. She had always had a soft spot for Will, and it pleased Alana to be able to bring her back good news after each visit.

“Will?” she called through the door, then frowned at the mess. Engine parts lay strewn across the floor, a bag of groceries tipped on its side among them. She stepped in, suddenly worried. “Will?” she called again, and heard a scraping noise coming from the kitchen. She picked her way carefully through the mess to find Will slumped on the floor, a broken bottle next to him. His fingers were holding several of the shards, blood dripping down the shining glass and onto the wood beneath him.

“Oh my god, Will, what happened?”

She rushed over to him, assaulted by the overwhelming scent of whiskey. She grabbed his hand and lifted it up, forcing him to drop the glass. The cuts appeared superficial, though it seemed that he had been reopening them every time he squeezed his hands around the jagged edges.

“Hey, Alana,” he slurred up at her before laughing almost hysterically, then sliding over until he was lying on the floor. Alana grabbed his shoulders and hauled him back into an upright position, his laughter now abated.

“Ow,” he said, his voice strangely soft, and it was only then that Alana noticed the silent tears coursing down his cheeks. It was so close to the way he had been when Alana had told him about Hannibal's death, and the similarities scared her.

“Will?” she said softly, wanting desperately to draw out whatever it was that was causing this, to take away whatever it was that was causing Will this pain. She knew though, somehow she just knew, that it wasn't ever going to be that easy. It was never going to be something she had a hope of fixing, because it was the one thing that she'd _never_ been able to fix.

“Tell me what's wrong, Will. I can help you, but only if you tell me what's wrong.”

“You can't help me, Alana,” he scoffed. “You never could.”

The words stung, but she knew he was right. She'd spent years trying to help Will, but he'd proven to her beyond any shadow of a doubt that you just can't help someone who won't help themselves. She sighed, sitting down on the floor next to him instead.

“At least tell me what's upset you. I might not be able to help, but I can at least let you ease some of the pressure.”

He didn't respond at first, and Alana began to give up hope that he ever would. She nudged her shoulder into his though anyway, hoping the physical contact would provide some sort of comfort. It may not have done that, but it did at least shock him back out of whatever dream state he'd gone into. He lifted his other hand, the one that as near as Alana could tell was still undamaged. In it was a piece of paper, and he waved it at her. She took it, reading the short message written upon it.

_I'm sorry._

_-C_

“It was in my letterbox this morning,” he explained, his voice somehow managing to be both wooden and slurring. “It was unaddressed. Hand delivered.”

Alana was confused, then apprehensive. No one should be hand delivering any letters to David Johnson; David Johnson didn't know anyone. Which meant this letter must have been sent specifically to Will.

“Will? Who is C?”

“Doesn't matter. You were right, Alana. Hannibal really is dead.”

The utter despair on Will's features, even in the face of everything Hannibal had done to him, broke Alana's heart. She didn't say anything, only pulled him into her arms. He froze at first, his entire body growing tense, but then it was like a wall broke and he was clinging to her, great choking sobs tearing from his throat.

She stroked his hair, and let him cry.

/--/

Alana rubbed her eyes for what felt like the millionth time. She sat up in bed, resting with her back to Margot's chest.

“You should have seen him, Margot. It's like everything that made Will _Will_ has gone, like the last little part of him that was hanging on has just … disappeared.”

Margot remained silent, just listening and stroking Alana's hair. It was one of the many things she loved about Margot, her ability to listen and let Alana unload without trying to offer advice, not unless Alana asked for it.

“Jack told me that when he found Will in Italy, he said that part of him would always want to slip away with Hannibal. I'm worried that he has.”

Margot tipped her head forward, softly kissing behind Alana's ear. Her arms tightened as she did, and Alana leaned back into the embrace.

“I'm just so scared for him, Margot. This is even worse than when Hannibal was still around, and I never thought I'd be saying that. Not ever.”

“All you can do is be there for him,” Margot said, resting her chin on Alana's shoulder. “If he wants the help, he will take it. If he doesn't? There's nothing you can do.”

Alana sagged, knowing that Margot was right, and envying her ability to accept things as they were.

“I feel like this is all my fault,” she whispered. “If I had only believed him when he first told us about Hannibal, none of this would have happened.”

“Hindsight is a wonderful thing, but it will make you crazy. You didn't know then what you know now, and nothing you do now will change that.”

“I was a shitty friend, and -”

“Hey,” Margot interrupted, her voice as soft as ever, but steel strong beneath that. “You are a wonderful person, one that I happen to love more than I thought it was possible to love someone. You have done the best you could do, with the resources you had.”

Alana relaxed a little, basking in Margot's love and devotion. Alana didn't deserve her. She didn't deserve any of this, and yet somehow, thanks primarily to Hannibal, she had everything she never knew she wanted, while Will was lying, a broken man on his kitchen floor.

She should have done more for him.

She resolved to step up her visits to Will, starting tomorrow.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It does get better, I promise.


	5. Chapter 5

Will's days fell into even more of a shapeless, borderless blur than they had been. He barely moved, dragging himself out of bed and to the fridge only if his hunger grew too great to ignore, or if his bottle ran empty. He didn't shower, he didn't shave, he didn't so much as brush his hair. Why would he? What was the point? The one thing that had been the centre of his life for so many years, even when they weren't physically near each other, had been ripped away from him. His back up life was fucked up beyond retrieval anyway, and then Jack had made sure that he couldn't make the attempt to patch it up even if he had wanted to.

He was left rudderless, tetherless.

Alone.

Alana began visiting every day, trying to persuade him to leave the house, cleaning up the mess that he had left, but Will refused. He never felt more alone than when she was there, a reminder of all that he had once had. He breathed a sigh of relief whenever she left, leaving him to the quiet and the peace of his despair.

And so it went on for days, bleeding into weeks. There came a day when Alana arrived with Margot, and they half persuaded, half man-handled his drunken self into the bath. They had the decency to leave his boxers on while they washed him, his refusal to do anything for himself obviously getting to Alana. He didn't tell them that he did feel better, if only for a moment, after dressing in clean, dry clothes, his hair combed and his beard trimmed. It reminded him in some fashion of the day he had returned to Hannibal's therapy. It was the day, now that he thought back on it, that it was obvious he had become far too entwined with Hannibal, even if neither of them knew it at the time.

After that, much to Alana's ill-disguised relief, he began showering more regularly. Obsessively, even, finding that the pounding of the hot water on his head was the only thing that drowned out the ever present noise in his mind. He found he could stay under that steady stream until the hot water ran out, multiple times a day. His compulsive need for the showers was what finally prompted him to leave the house, going to pick up the things he needed to install an instant hot water system.

Four weeks after Chiyoh's letter, Will stood under his first hot shower with the new system, washing away the dirt and grime of the day. For the first time since then, for the first time since he had awoken after the fall, he felt the thinnest of layers papering over the hole in the centre of him.

It made him feel sick, as though he were betraying Hannibal by forgetting about him, even for just a second. He didn't feel sick that he didn't feel the same sense of loss for Molly and Walter.

When he went to bed that night, he wrapped his arms around his pillow, pretending it was Hannibal. For all that he couldn't get him out of his head the last few months, this was the first time he had actively allowed himself to think about him, to pretend. He wasn't sure what he was pretending, exactly. He held the pillow tightly, just as he had held Hannibal on the cliff top, and he fell asleep in his imagined embrace.

In his dream they didn't fall, not straight away. In his dream when he rested his head on Hannibal, he didn't pull him over. He looked back up, Hannibal's face the same picture of disbelieving adoration as he remembered, and when his eyes flicked to Will's lips again, Will didn't waste his opportunity. He leaned in, pressing their lips together, his tongue darting out to caress Hannibal's with feather light, blood flavoured touches. There was no pain, the wound in his cheek no more than a scratch. Hannibal was as heated as the blood flowing through and over and between them, energy bouncing between the two of them until Will felt like he was going to explode, and only then did they fall, floating down to the cooling, crashing waves below until they were cradled in the foam.

Not once did they fall from each other's arms.

Will woke with a gasp, tears streaking once more down his cheeks. He sat up, noticing with no small amount of startlement the sticky, wet state of his underwear. He scrubbed at his face, then peeled the boxers off, wiping at his skin with a dry corner of the material. Despite himself, he began to laugh; he was aware of how hysterical he sounded but he didn't care. He _was_ hysterical. He staggered into the kitchen to grab his bottle of whiskey, downing it straight from the bottle as he stumbled towards the shower again, and _fuck_ it if it was only two am, he needed both of those things.

His giggles continued unabated, forcing their way out around the neck of the bottle. More drink was spilling down his front than actually going into his mouth, dribbling down the t-shirt he'd worn to bed and dripping over his soft, still mostly sticky cock. He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror and instantly closed his eyes in revulsion. He was a _mess_. The bathroom light, flicked on as he'd made his way in, was immediately switched back off, the darkness hiding his face from his sight.

Hurriedly he turned the shower on, his laughter now well and truly quelled. The t-shirt was thrown somewhere onto the floor and he stepped under the scalding water, clinging to the half empty whiskey bottle like a lifeline. He raised the bottle to his lips, taking swallow after swallow and not giving a single shit about the burn, either inside his throat from the drink or on his skin from the water. Dimly he was aware that this wasn't a good idea, but he wanted to scour every part of him that was still capable of feeling something, and he didn't much care how he went about it anymore.

The bottle drained, he threw it out onto the floor. By some miracle (and one he would be glad of come morning, no doubt) it didn't break, landing with a thunk instead and rolling off into a corner. He rested his head against the cool tiles of the wall as the heat and pressure of the water gradually burned his skin to numbness. He wished he could cry, wished he could just purge himself of all this, but there was nothing. No more tears left, no more ability to sob himself into the haze of desperate sleep. He was entirely empty, and none of his attempts at mourning had done anything to help.

If he was being truly honest with himself, though, Will had to admit that his attempts at moving on were near to zero in terms of taking actual steps. Drinking, locking himself away from the world, shunning the one visitor he had … those weren't mourning. Those weren't moving on. Those were depression, and they were denial.

Because he _was_ in denial. Even with Chiyoh's note, he _still_ couldn't quite bring himself to truly believe that Hannibal was dead. Maybe Chiyoh believed it, maybe she had other purposes for making him believe it, but …

… Will just couldn't. He felt the despair, the longing; he missed Hannibal _more_ than he would have missed losing his own limbs, but there was still the smallest kernel of belief that Hannibal was out there somewhere.

He still wasn't sure if it would be better, or worse, if Hannibal was still alive but didn't want to see Will, didn't want to find him. Or maybe he had heard the news of Will's death and was in the same state Will himself was. Maybe Chiyoh was, for reasons of her own, hiding the reality of Will's survival from Hannibal.

He was grasping at straws, he knew that. But the day he let go of those straws would be the end for him. He could see that just as clearly.

And so he kept on, clinging to those straws for dear life, in the most literal sense of the phrase.

/--/

Will dragged himself out of bed the next morning, eyes as scratchy as if he had been sleeping in sand, more hungover than he could recall ever being in his life. He had reached a decision though, last night in the shower, his head swimming with alcohol and grief.

He couldn't stay here.

He couldn't stay in this empty, isolated house, couldn't stay near Alana and Margot and their pity. Couldn't stay in this godforsaken _country_ , not when he couldn't go the those few places that would have given him some relief. His old place in Wolf Trap, Hannibal's house, his office where they had spent so many hours trying to get into one another's heads that they were forever stuck there, they were all lost to him.

And so he had to go.

He checked his bank account, its balance swelled by the income provided by Alana and Margot, and the money he had made himself refurbishing boat engines. The fact he had scarcely spent a cent over the last few weeks on food, choosing to eat only whatever dried and tinned food he already had in the house and even then, only when he physically _had_ to, meant the balance was even higher than it would have been. He had more than enough to leave, to turn his back on this place and never come back. Jack and Alana had even seen fit to provide him with a passport.

He had no doubt the passport was Jack's idea; he could only wonder if he had hoped Will would take the hint and leave, go somewhere Jack wouldn't ever have to worry about him again. Alana had made it painfully clear that she wanted, and expected, Will to stay right where she could look after him.

She wasn't going to be pleased when he told her what he was planning. But he would tell her, rather than just leaving without a word. He owed her that much.

He opened up the laptop, making the necessary arrangements before she arrived, knowing that it would be that much harder for her to talk him out of it if it was already done. Task completed, he left to shop for the few items he would need.

/--/

By the time Will arrived back at the house, Alana had already arrived. She and Margot sat at the outside table on the veranda that Will had never used, enjoying the afternoon sunshine. The days were growing noticeably warmer, another itch in Will's need to be away. While there was still snow he could remember Hannibal more easily; theirs had, through a curious (and unnoticed by Will until now) combination of fate and circumstance been an entirely winter based relationship. He thought it should have made it easier to forget Hannibal, having everything in his surroundings so new and different and _alive_. If anything, it only served to highlight the loss.

Will parked the car to the side of theirs, hauling his purchases out with him. He had hoped to be back and have this all away before they arrived, but there was no point in hiding it.

“Will! I'm glad to see you out!” Alana exclaimed, rising with a smile. The smile faded as she looked at the luggage he was hauling towards the house. “You planning a trip?” she asked, sounding mildly confused.

“Yeah, I wanted to talk to you about that, actually,” he replied, opening the front door and holding it open for them. He followed the two women into the house, dropping the brand new suitcase in the middle of the floor.

Alana looked at him questioningly, as Margot sat on the couch. They were both curious, Will could see that, Alana just showing her curiosity more overtly. Will gestured for Alana to take a seat, waiting for her to settle herself in next to Margot before taking his own seat opposite them.

“I wanted to thank you for all you've done for me,” he began, unable to make eye contact. “I've appreciated it, and I wouldn't have been able to make it this far without you. I don't know where I would be...” he said, trailing off. He lifted his hands in a sort of half shrug, an apologetic smile on his face.

“What are you planning, Will?” Alana asked. Margot glanced sidelong at Alana, picking up on the slight tremors in her voice, just as Will had.

“I can't stay here anymore. There are too many memories, and not enough. I can't go to the places that would bring me relief. So I have to go elsewhere.”

“You can't just leave, Will,” Alana said frantically. “You need help getting through all of this, and -”

“Who can help me, Alana?” he interrupted with a cold laugh. “I've seen my last psychiatrist, you must realise that. And even if I hadn't, who could I possibly tell about all of this stuff? I'm dead, remember?”

“It doesn't have to be another psychiatrist,” Alana continued, Margot still watching in silence. “I can help you -”

“I think we've established that you can't.”

Will was surprised, and pleased, at how calm he was keeping. It helped knowing that everything was done, that Alana couldn't possibly hope to persuade him to stay.

“For better or worse, a monster fell in love with me, and I...” he paused for a moment, steeling himself to finally say out loud what he had only ever kept locked away inside. “I fell in love with him. And then he was taken from me. There's nothing here for me now.”

He looked down, unable to bring himself to see what effect his words had had on Alana. The sharp intake of breath, and the swollen silence that surrounded them told him more than enough.

/--/

Margot drove herself and Alana back after the meeting with Will. Alana was in no fit state to drive, bouncing between anger and despair at seeming to be finally losing Will. She glanced over at Alana, who was staring blankly out the window as they drove in silence, her forehead resting against the glass.

“Hey,” Margot said softly, reaching over to grab Alana's hand. “Don't beat yourself up, okay?”

“I should have done more,” Alana whispered, squeezing Margot's fingers.

“You did all you could. This is Will's decision. He's an adult, not your child, and he's free to leave as he pleases.”

“If I'd done more, he wouldn't feel the need to leave,” Alana said, her tone flat and emotionless. Margot knew Alana better than to believe that though; beneath the brittle mask was a woman on the verge of breaking. She looked around, then pulled over onto the side of the road, unbuckling her seatbelt and leaning over to Alana once the car was stopped. She cupped her hand around Alana's face, forcing her to make eye contact.

“You listen to me. You did not fail him,” she said fiercely. “You are a good psychiatrist, a good friend, and an amazing person. If you couldn't get through to him, no one could have.”

Alana gave Margot a shaky smile, reaching up to hold the hand Margot had resting against her cheek. Their fingers twined together and Margot leaned forward to drag her lips across Alana's, not quite a kiss until Alana pushed forward herself.

“I love you,” Alana said, sniffing slightly as their foreheads bumped together. “I don't know what I did to deserve you, but I love you more than I can possibly say.”

Margot smiled, giving Alana one more kiss.

“I love you too. Even when you're all snotty and teary,” she replied, rubbing her thumb gently against Alana's skin. She sat back up and put her belt back on, pulling out onto the road again. Alana's hand snaked across to rest on her thigh as she drove.

She'd help Alana through this. They'd coped with far worse and come out just fine.

/--/

By the time Will stepped off the plane in Florence, he was tired, irritable, and in serious need of a shower. A good part of him wanted to head straight to the hotel, just to wash the grime away, but his need to remember Hannibal drove him in the opposite direction.

He kept his head down as he approached the entrance to the Ufizzi Gallery, not overly fond of the memory of Chiyoh shooting him. Though now, with the benefit of time and distance, he found himself remembering – or more likely, constructing a memory - of the way Hannibal had grabbed him after he fell to the ground, shielding him and lifting him, the way his arms had held tightly to him as they had made their escape.

With time and distance, Will still couldn't understand what he was thinking when he abandoned Hannibal. Why he cast him down from the cliff, and woke up alone.

He took a deep breath, and entered the gallery. There was a small crowd in front of the Primavera, and Will seethed, wanting nothing more than to be left alone in here but knowing that there was no way to make that happen. And so he stood waiting for the bench seat he had shared with Hannibal all those years ago to clear. He gazed up at the painting, wondering if Hannibal had drawn it again after they had left. He had seen the version he was working on when they had met there, startled to see his own face as well as Bedelia's rendered in pencil in the image. He hadn't thought much of it at the time, still too stunned to be finally seeing Hannibal before him after so much time apart. He remembered still not knowing whether he was going to kill Hannibal, or...

...or kiss him. He could admit that to himself, now. He couldn't then, which was probably why he had pulled out the knife even though he had, at that stage, no intention of actually using it. The thought of having fallen for Hannibal was just too much for him to be able to cope with.

He had thought that being here again would make him sad, somehow. It didn't. For the first time since he had woken up, he found himself smiling, not unlike the way he had smiled upon seeing Hannibal. He felt lighter, in a way. Closer to him.

He stayed a while longer - long enough to realise that the gallery was about to close, and that he would have to leave. He stood, dragging his suitcase along with him, the clouds closing back over his head with each step he took away from this place. He knew he wouldn't be back.

He checked in to his hotel, dropping his bag in the middle of the floor before collapsing on the bed, not even removing his shoes. The lightness he had felt before the Primavera had well and truly disappeared, and suddenly he felt too big for his skin, itchy and uncomfortable. He sat back up, tearing his clothes off and stumbling into the shower, letting the hot water rain down on him. He wondered if part of the attraction of a hot shower was that it was so different to his fleeting memories of the fall into the Atlantic – hot instead of cold, gentle massage rather than incessant, violent pounding. He was wet, but not submerged.

He scrubbed himself clean, padding naked back out of the bathroom, choosing to let himself air dry. He picked up the remote and flicked through the channels, looking for something to watch, but his Italian wasn't nearly good enough to be able to keep up. He debated putting on some porn, but the thought turned his stomach. And yet, there was an itch, a need that he couldn't fulfil himself, hadn't even _tried_ to. He flicked the tv off, drumming his fingers absentmindedly against his thighs.

Decision made, he dressed and left the hotel.

/--/

The bar was crowded and noisy, exactly what Will hated, and exactly what he was looking for. He'd already downed more overpriced shots than he should have, his whole body fighting itself, trying to choose between his ingrained need to withdraw, and the alcoholically induced relaxation. His eyes scanned the crowd as his fingers tapped against the bar, searching for … he had no real idea what he was searching for.

Something.

Nothing.

He'd know when he saw it.

His gaze slid over a woman with hair like Alana's, another with a face like Molly's. They did nothing for him anymore. One or two men caught his attention briefly, before they, too, faded into the background. He had no idea what he was doing. He'd never tried to pick someone up at a bar before.

“Looking for someone?”

A voice knocked him out of his reverie, and he looked up to find a man with a tray full of glasses, obviously returning from collecting them off tables. He was tall, maybe Hannibal's height, with a similar haircut, if styled entirely differently. There the similarities ended, though, the man's wide eyes and easy smile entirely unlike Hannibal's. He was stocky, his tight white tshirt showing off the bulges of his muscles.

“Maybe,” Will answered, allowing his eyes to roam conspicuously over the man's body. He leaned back, resting his arms against the bar as he pushed his hips forward in subtle invitation. “You're English?” he asked, his tongue darting out to lick his lower lip.

“And you're American,” the man replied, leaning over to drop his tray on the other side of the bar. “You been here long?”

Will was surprised at how easily he was reeling the man in. He'd never so much as kissed another man, had certainly never had any interest in one night stands, but this … this looked like it could scratch that itch.

“Arrived today,” he said, wishing things were a bit quieter so he could try out a tone of voice that wasn't a shout. “Looking for a way to unwind.” He turned his body as he spoke, moving into the man's space. He was pleased when he wasn't immediately pushed away – the opposite, in fact; the man turned his own body so they were facing each other, the space between them minimal. They maintained eye contact, and Will knew he had him.

From there it was easy; a touch on the arm, a lingering of fingertips, and before Will knew it he was locked in some dingy supply cupboard, pants around his knees and his hands tangled in the man's hair, a dirty bare light bulb swinging gently above them. The guy – Will hadn't found out his name, had no intention of finding it out, nor of giving his – worked his cock enthusiastically, his fingers digging into the flesh of Will's hips. He watched his bobbing head, listened to the slurping grotesqueness of the sounds he was making, but he felt nothing. His body made all the proper reactions, so the guy going to town on his dick was happy, but Will felt flat, empty. It wasn't what he wanted, not really.

He closed his eyes to block the sight, but the man's hair reminded him of Hannibal. An image popped into his mind, unbidden, of a different man on his knees before him, hair a silvery ash instead of dark brown, teeth sharp as they dragged across the sensitive skin of his cock. His stomach clenched with desire, and he found himself furthering the image. He imagined looking down at Hannibal, stroking his hair while he sucked on Will's cock, their eyes meeting and gazes locking, Will fucking harder and deeper into his throat while Hannibal choked down every last inch...

His eyes snapped open and he yanked back on the man's hair, pulling him off his dick as he came, semen splattering across his face. The man looked up at him with a frown then, slightly irked with Will's actions, though he smiled when his tongue darted out to scoop up some of the slowly dripping mess.

Will was disgusted, mostly with himself. He hurriedly tucked himself back into his pants, doing his fly back up with before leaving the tiny room with a muttered apology. He almost ran out of the bar, making his way back to the hotel as quickly as he could, where he slammed the door behind him, sucking in deep breaths in an attempt to stave off the frustrated scream that demanded release.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much, everyone who has been so encouraging. I love you all ♥


	6. Chapter 6

After that night in the bar, Will's itch had only grown worse. He knew it was because of Hannibal; missing him, being racked with guilt over being the cause of their separation. And he still only thought of it as that – a separation. He knew, if he just kept looking, he would find him. He didn't give a fuck what Alana, or Chiyoh, or _anyone_ tried to tell him. It just wasn't possible for one to be alive without the other.

And yet he had no idea where to start. Florence was probably not somewhere Hannibal was ever going to go again; he was far too infamous to be able to pass by unnoticed, supposedly dead or not. And so he had tried to get to that itch however he could, while he tried to work out where to begin.

He'd heard of the place from one of the nameless fucks he had picked up one night. Not a place, as such. A website. He'd looked at it a few days later, just out of curiosity. Within a week he was damn near addicted, chatting with faceless men using ludicrous pseudonyms, then meeting up with them in public locations. Sometimes he took one look at the guy waiting and left, never to speak to them again. Other times though … other times they had _something_ , something that reminded him enough of Hannibal to stay, to use and be used. Sometimes it was the colour of their hair – never quite the same, but close enough. Once it was the man's cheekbones, nowhere near the sharpness of Hannibal's, but far closer than anyone he had found so far. Sometimes it was a nameless something, something in the look in their eyes, or the way they carried themselves. Whatever it was, it provided some relief, if only for a night, an hour, a moment.

Sometimes that relief was taken in the places they met, other times they went back to cheap, pay-by-the-hour rooms. Will found himself leaving Italy entirely, eventually settling down for a time in France. And now here he was, waiting for yet another man in a park on the outskirts of Paris. This one he knew he would stay with. There was something in the way he spoke that reminded him of Hannibal, more than any of the others. Some fucked up part of him thought that it _was_ Hannibal, as though Hannibal would _ever_ lower himself to using an anonymous hook up website.

And yet, when finally a man who was as unlike Hannibal as it was possible to be shuffled up next to him, whispering Will's screen name in cautious questioning, he couldn't help the wave of bitter disappointment that flowed through him. He closed his eyes and nodded anyway, grimacing only slightly at the way the man immediately latched on to him, pushing him back against a tree. He tipped his head to the side as the man bit into the skin of his neck, laving at the tender spot with his tongue. A leg was shoved roughly between Will's, his thigh rubbing hard against Will's flaccid cock.

“What the fuck is this,” the stranger demanded, his anger more than obvious to Will. He just shrugged, not in the mood for any of it.

“I'm sorry,” he said, feeling anything but. “I made a mistake. I'll just leave you to your evening.”

“The fuck you will,” the man snapped, shoving Will back against the tree again. “A deal's a deal, and you will _keep_ your deal.”

Alarm shot through Will and he looked, _really_ looked at the man rubbing himself against him. He was clearly on something, his entire body vibrating, sweat pouring off him. Will shoved at him, but the man just gripped tighter before spinning Will and smashing him face first into the bark of the tree. A hand snaked down, fumbling at his pants. Will had had enough. He thrust his head back, a satisfying crunch and the warmth of blood dripping onto his neck letting him know he had hit his target. The man stumbled back, his hands to his nose, looking back at Will in rage. Will turned slowly, and something in his face spoke to the man, whose face drained of all colour. He advanced slowly, the man backing up with each step, and when he turned to flee Will reached out and grabbed him.

He threw him to the ground, raising a leg and kicking him in the balls, _hard_. The man curled up, blood still streaming from his nose, and Will kicked him again, aiming for the kidneys this time. He held nothing back, letting all the months of frustration and anger out with every kick.

“You piece … of rapist … _shit_ ,” he spat out between kicks, barely noticing the man was no longer responding. Exhausted, he leaned back against the tree, fighting to regain his breath. He was giddy, _alive_ for the first time since he had last seen Hannibal. It didn't escape his notice that the last time they had seen each other was when they had killed the Dragon. He had no idea if he had killed _this_ guy, but the feeling was the same. He could have walked away, could have merely incapacitated him. But that would have left him free to do the same to someone else, someone less able to defend themselves.

Will felt _righteous._

_/--/_

That night let Will know what he needed to do, what he could do himself to draw Hannibal's attention. He had no way of knowing where in the world he was, or if he was even in Europe, but he knew that with the right set of actions, he could draw him here anyway.

He left the man in the park, just another random attack. He didn't care if he was still alive, if he had died; he made no effort to find out. He was just a catalyst for the next shift in Will's life.

He left Paris a week later, having made the preparations he needed. He made his way to Lithuania after that – it only seemed fitting, after all. Where better to set his signal than the place of his target's beginnings? He spent another week in Vilnius, doing nothing more than looking around, playing the tourist until he found exactly what he needed. An empty warehouse, and his pick of yet to be apprehended violent criminals. They were no Dragon, bottom feeding scum instead, but they would do for his purposes.

It wasn't hard to find the one he wanted, a low level wannabe gangster type who got off on beating those weaker than him to prove his masculinity. It made Will sick, and he knew it would disgust Hannibal just as much. He found the pig late one night, snorting coke and building his way up to his favourite activity. Will turned on the charm, playing the hapless foreigner who just wanted to score a hit, and convinced the idiot to follow him. The man's arrogance made it almost too easy, and before long they were at the warehouse. Will dropped him with a punch to the throat, quickly wrapping a noose around his neck and hauling him up so he was displayed in front of the closed doors of the warehouse.

He shoved a box under his feet, allowing the man purchase, just enough to take the slack of the rope. He scrabbled at his neck, loosening the knot only enough to allow the air back into his lungs with forceful gasps, Will watching in detached amusement.

He rasped out what sounded like curses in Lithuanian – Will hadn't bothered to learn the language enough to know what he was saying, not yet. That could come later; he was certain Hannibal would want to teach him. He ignored the gurgling, hanging meat thereafter, sliding open the door to the warehouse to retrieve the bag he had stashed in there earlier. He dragged it out, the heaviness making him disinclined to lift it if he didn't have to. He opened it to reveal the collection of tools within, and then he got to work.

He stood back to admire the job once he was done. The man's abdomen had been cut into, Will searching around in there while he found exactly where his liver and kidneys were. He'd been screaming the entire time Will had been rummaging. He was filled with admiration for the way Hannibal had done this so neatly, even with the benefit of years of surgical experience. The organs themselves had been thrown into the dirt; Will had no desire to keep them. He would never be able to do them justice anyway, not yet.

That job completed, he had retrieved the rest of the tools from the bag, carefully and slowly inserting them into the man's now limp, dying body in an approximation of the Wound Man. It didn't have to be perfect; in fact, it was better that it was clearly not the work of Hannibal Lecter. No, it just had to be recognisable, and to anyone who knew what they were looking at, it would be very recognisable indeed.

/--/

It didn't take long for the murder to make the papers, and Will grinned in vicious delight at each report. There were already details about what was done, and within a week the news was being reported by Freddie. Wonderful, wonderful Freddie, who could always be counted on to find the things that Will wanted made known.

She was quick to denounce the murder as nothing more than a copycat, citing the poor manner in which the victim was butchered, but the news was out there now. She delighted in proclaiming to all who would listen that one of the worst serial killers in history had spawned devotees around the world, including in his home country no less, and the more she talked about it, the more convinced Will grew that if Hannibal _was_ out there, he would know about it. He never could tear his eyes away from stories about himself, the narcissistic bastard, and there was no greater, or more devoted source of those stories than Freddie fucking Lounds.

He knew he'd have to work harder to make Hannibal truly _see_ , though. He left Lithuania, making his way back to Italy. He knew it was probably risky, doing his work there, but if he was careful, and stayed away from Florence, he should be able to remain safe enough.

He started in Venice where he found, much to his amusement, a psychiatrist. The man had manipulated several of his wealthier patients into modifying their wills, leaving him not insubstantial sums of money when they inevitably died shortly afterwards. He was very good at his work, Will had to give him that. There was little evidence left in the murders, certainly not enough to convince even the most sceptical of investigators. By the time Will was done with him, though, he had confessed everything. Given the watery surroundings, Will decided to plant this one, a chain of flowers atop his head, and dozens of roses shoved through slits in his flesh. His heart Will removed and forced into the man's mouth. As he finished, Will stepped back to once again admire his handiwork. It was no Tree Man, but just like his tribute to the Wound Man, it would serve its purpose.

It took a little longer for this murder to reach the keen ears of Freddie Lounds, but reach her it did. Will could all but _see_ her frothing at the mouth as she struggled to connect the two. To Will's pleasure, it seemed that she was the only one – no European media was interested in trying to link the two, and no other American news source so much as mentioned either of them.

Regardless, he was pleased that she had made the connection. There was no way that Hannibal would miss seeing the message. Will only hoped that he would be able to follow the directions.

/--/

It was risky, perhaps, returning to Palermo. He had made a hurried visit to the Norman Chapel, but where visiting the Primavera had provided some calm, even peace to Will, seeing the Chapel interior, seeing where Hannibal had left his gift, _feeling_ his presence even now, had filled him with crushing grief. He had to rush from the building before he became overwhelmed, staggering back to his hotel room and slamming the door behind him. He leaned against the door, panting and wondering, not for the first time, what exactly he was doing.

He had no idea if Hannibal was really alive. He had no idea if he was just living a blood-soaked fever dream, chasing a delusion that was not, and could never be real. He turned slowly, stumbling to the fridge and pulling out every bottle the mini bar had. He was beyond caring what was in each one, cracking the lids open and downing each one as quickly as possible. All he knew was that he needed to numb this unending need within him, somehow find a way to ignore the hole that was growing ever wider, ever deeper, with each and every day that passed. He slid away on dreams of silver hair and strong arms holding him close.

He woke, cotton-mouthed and head pounding late the following morning. He was face down on his bed, fully clothed, shoes still on, and yet the last fleeting traces of his dreams had him convinced that he was curled up next to Hannibal, finally where he belonged. The disappointment and almost destructive sorrow that followed the fall back to reality was too much for him to handle, and he curled up on himself, feverishly wishing the world away.

It was another hour spent like that, unmoving, before the heartache receded enough for him to be able to bring himself to move. He washed, not his normal shower to escape, but enough to make himself passable, his hair combed only enough to make sure he didn't look like he'd just staggered in from the forest. Almost without conscious thought he followed his feet to the hotel restaurant, but just the sight of it made his stomach roil. He needed something less …

… less _Hannibal._

Leaving the hotel, he found himself wandering aimlessly around, passing by food stall after café after restaurant, until his feet hurt. In the end, those sore feet were what made his decision for him. The café he entered was small, and cool, with more seating inside than out. Using not much more than hand gestures and the small smattering of Italian he knew, he managed to order a sandwich, cake and coffee then took a seat to wait, his back to the door, flicking through a magazine someone had left behind. He wondered if he would be able to learn to read Italian if he stared at the words for long enough. His food and coffee arrived, just as he was deciding that learning the language by osmosis was unlikely to happen.

He ate slowly, people entering and leaving, the lunchtime rush well and truly over, though the place still did a brisk trade. Despite the bustle it was peaceful, and he found himself closing his eyes as he cradled the warm coffee cup. The thing about having your eyes closed, Will mused later on, was that it made it so much easier to listen, to truly _hear._ He listened to the customers talking, the regulars joking with the staff. He savoured the lyrical cadence of the language, the stilting way tourists tried their hand at communicating.

He looked over his shoulder when he heard a voice, clearly not a local with his accented Italian, but a confident, fluent speaker nonetheless, and froze.

The speaker was tall, silver hair falling to just above his shoulders. Next to him stood a shorter woman with long, black hair, pulled back in a bun.

Will would know that voice, that body anywhere.

The man turned and their eyes met, the rest of the world fading to nothing. There was no sound, there was no colour, no _light_ , beyond that which surrounded Hannibal. He couldn't breathe. Faintly he was aware of the coffee cup falling, hitting the floor and shattering, but still there was no sound. Hannibal's face was a mask of disbelief, his whole body frozen, his lips parted in a small o.

Will stood, and it felt as though he were wading through molasses. He screamed at his body to move faster, but it seemed that the more quickly he tried to move, the more tightly he was fixed to the spot. Hannibal's lips moved then, the word “Will...” breathed out so softly, yet so sharply that it cut the chains holding Will down. His feet finally began moving, taking the few steps to stand before Hannibal. His hand lifted of its own accord to trail fingers along stubble, the touch providing the final proof that Hannibal was really, _finally_ , here. He was here, and he was real, and then the world turned black.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :D


	7. Chapter 7

Will woke again, just as cotton-mouthed as he had been that morning, but in an entirely different room. His own hotel was nice enough, but no more than functional. Hannibal though … Hannibal just couldn't resist, could he. He had been declared dead, so why bother trying to tone his tastes down? The rich colours, the soft bed, and this time he knew that it wasn't a dream. He was alone, but he was curled around a recently vacated warm patch on the bed, and when he breathed in, the smell triggered every memory he had of Hannibal. There was that same cologne he had always worn, undercut by the scent of Hannibal himself.

The door to the bedroom was closed, and he could hear quiet, but heated conversation on the other side. He stood, waiting while a rush of dizziness passed, and moved to the door. He opened it slowly to find Hannibal and Chiyoh locked together in a fierce yet whispered argument, resembling nothing so much as a pair of spitting cats. Their heads both turned as soon as they heard the door click open, Chiyoh's face becoming quickly, and carefully, blank, but Hannibal's …

… Hannibal's face was a painting of pain and hope, naked adoration and despair. Will couldn't recall another time he'd seen so many conflicting emotions on the man's face, another time it'd been so bereft of control.

Not even the night on the cliff had been like this.

And again, just like at the café, the background faded when Will's eyes met Hannibal's. He didn't even realise they were moving until they were standing before one another, the slightest distance separating them but _still_ they weren't touching. He wondered if this feeling of the world grinding to a halt was happening to Hannibal as well.

He felt like it was.

Slowly his eyes tracked over Hannibal's face, cataloguing every line, every change that he could find. His hair was longer, his stubble far messier – rugged, maybe, was the better term – than it had been, and it suited Hannibal well. His eyes, though, were haunted, deep circles beneath them that reminded Will of his own. This separation had not been kind to either of them, it would appear.

The moment was broken by the sound of Chiyoh moving behind them, her face shifting from blank to fiery. It was patently obvious to Will that him being there was not at all to her liking.

“Hannibal -” she began, but she was immediately cut off by Hannibal himself.

“Get out,” he growled, his voice controlled and quiet, and full of threat. “Get out of my sight.”

Her mouth closed with a click of teeth, her gaze flicking between the two of them. She nodded once, then moved to collect her things, making her way to the door without a further word.

Will watched her, then looked at Hannibal. He seemed to know what Will was asking and merely nodded, a resigned expression on his face. It was that, not any grand gesture, that told Will he had made the right choice in tracking Hannibal down, not giving up on ever finding him. He hurried after Chiyoh as she left the room, allowing the door to close with a quiet snick behind them.

She stopped when she heard Will following, her back rigid. She didn't turn to look at him. He wondered briefly what her thoughts were, her feelings on the matter, before he decided he didn't care. He only had one question for her, and then she could be on her way.

“Why?” he asked softly, not angry at all. That fact surprised him; he thought he would be full of murderous rage, but the overwhelming relief – and that was a word that didn't come _close_ to describing his actual feelings on the matter – at finally finding Hannibal washed away any anger he may have had, and left him with nothing but sadness and pity for Chiyoh.

“You are bad for him,” she answered simply, turning her head only slightly to the side. “He has changed so much, and I can no longer help him. Not when he is determined to destroy himself because of you.”

Will had no idea what to say to that. They stood in silence, neither knowing how to take another step – Chiyoh away from Hannibal, and Will towards.

“I'm sorry,” he finally whispered, a ghostly echo of Chiyoh's own words to him. Her head shifted to face forwards again, her back just as rigid, and Will turned to go back into the hotel room. He didn't wait to see what Chiyoh did. The door clicked closed behind him again, but this time it had an air of finality about it. It was an appropriate feeling to be having, Will thought. This _was_ an act of finality. He'd had time to think – more time that he either wanted or needed, really – and he knew beyond any doubt that Hannibal was it for him. There would be no more running, no more fighting who he was or what he wanted.

The man himself was still standing where Will had left him, and he turned so they were facing one another once more. There was more quiet filling the room than seemed possible, a quiet that was itself full of tension.

“She was trying to protect you,” Will blurted out. It wasn't exactly what he had planned for their first conversation, but it seemed best to get this out of the way.

“I know,” Hannibal replied, his voice so soft and weary that Will could scarcely believe it was the same man he once knew. The hard set to Hannibal's eyes, the slight slump in his posture were testament to the things he had been through in the months they had been apart. Will had little doubt that the physical injuries he had sustained were the least of his concerns. They _were_ just alike after all, the two of them.

“What are you going to do?” Will asked, curious more than anything.

“Wait until I calm down. Chiyoh has been good to me; I would hate to do something I may end up regretting.”

Will couldn't help the smile that appeared at that statement; he had been on the receiving end of Hannibal's temper when he felt betrayed before, as they both well knew. He was pleased to see that he was finally learning how to deal with emotional setbacks.

With that out of the way, the tension changed. It didn't lessen; rather, it shifted. They had nothing to focus on but each other, now.

“Hi,” whispered Will, feeling more adrift than he ever had before. Here was everything he wanted, and he had no idea how to take it.

“Hello, Will,” was the soft reply, the hardness in Hannibal's eyes melting away with every second they gazed at each other. It was heaven-sent, nerve-racking bliss. Will still wasn't entirely sure he wasn't just dreaming this whole thing. But in his dreams Hannibal was always as polished and put together as Will remembered him, whereas this Hannibal was not.

He was so much more real than even Will's imagination was capable of.

“You look like hell,” he said, his smile belying any perceived insult. Hannibal smiled back.

“I was shot, thrown off a cliff, and told that my beloved was dead. It takes its toll.”

_My beloved._

It felt like Will had been punched in the gut, in the best possible way.

“ _God,_ I've missed you,” he whispered, a half laugh escaping at the sheer inadequacy of those words. It was only then that they moved, in that slow floaty way of dreams that had Will questioning his own mind once more, until they were standing close again, close enough to feel the heat from each other's bodies. Hannibal's hand hovered over Will's cheek, finger tracing the air millimetres above the line of scar tissue that coursed down it.

“I had thought I would never see you again,” Hannibal breathed, and Will was certain he could feel the pounding of Hannibal's heart. “And then I got your note, and I came for you, and you were here.”

He sounded so disbelieving, so in awe of what had transpired; Will knew exactly how he felt.

“I only stepped into that café by chance,” Will said, yearning to touch Hannibal, to lean into the hand still floating so close to his face, but unable to break the ties that kept him still.

“As did I,” Hannibal remarked, surprised pleasure now filling his eyes. They had yet to break eye contact and the energy building between them was growing unbearable. “Fate, it would seem, was determined for us to reunite on this day.”

His hand finally moved that last tiny distance then, fingers brushing so lightly against Will's face that it shouldn't have even been detectable, but _oh_ how Will had longed for it, and he soaked it in, his eyes fluttering shut as for the first time in months he felt the cavernous hole within him begin to retreat. He found his hands tangled in the shoulders of Hannibal's shirt, fingers bunching up the fabric to pull him closer, his head finally resting on Hannibal's chest in a repeat of their cliff top embrace. Hannibal's head rested atop Will's, his own hands running slowly, gently, up and down Will's back. It was so much more than Will could possibly have imagined.

There they remained for an unimaginable length of time; Will could not have said whether it was seconds or minutes, hours or days. All he knew was that he was home, and he was whole, and he _knew_ , just knew in the way that he always knew things, that Hannibal felt the same. That he had, on some level, always felt that way when they were together.

“Don't let me go,” Will whispered into Hannibal's skin. “Don't ever leave me again.”

Hannibal held him tighter, breathed him in.

“I won't,” he murmured into Will's hair, and Will knew it was a promise.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here we are :D I do have two more parts of this series planned out, one revolving around what Hannibal was doing during the separation, and one that follows on from the reunion. I'll probably do the same as with this part and get them written & completed before I post them.
> 
> I hope you've enjoyed this one! ♥♥


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